


Inbox (1)

by virgocas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anonymity, Baker Castiel, Businessman Dean, E-mail, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship, M/M, Multi, Online Friendship, Online Relationship, You've Got Mail AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2053815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virgocas/pseuds/virgocas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel runs a bakery. Dean has a high-ranking position in his family's grocery store chain. They are in love, they don't know it, and they don't know each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Corner Bakery

Most mornings, Castiel wakes as dawn’s tendrils seep into his apartment, soft, golden light filling the bedroom, warming his eyelids. Today, he is woken not by the sunrise, but by Victor. The mattress dips beside him, and he is roused with a kiss to the temple. He opens his eyes and blinks a few times, and whatever dream he’d been having ebbs away with his unconsciousness. He smiles and sits up.

“Morning, bed-head,” Victor ruffles his hair fondly. He's almost completely dressed, missing only slacks and shoes. He's always walking around in dress socks and boxers. He doesn’t wait for Castiel to respond before shoving the morning’s paper in his face. He can smell the peppery scent of news ink. “Look at this; Roman’s still dragging us through the dirt. Man, I’d like to rip him a new one,” he grumbles, pointing a finger at the pixelated image. “He doesn’t know the first thing about oysters. The man is from Kentucky for Christ’s sake! Honestly, I don’t know why anyone in this industry bothers with his reviews.”

Castiel suppresses a grin at his grumbling and laces their fingers together. “Three stars isn’t bad, sweetheart,” he tries. Victor snorts.

“It is when you deserve five!” He kisses Castiel again before standing and plucking his coat from the hatstand. “I have to be in early. We’re getting more lobster at eight and you know how useless Crowley is. I’ll have to make sure it’s all in order.” He clucks his tongue, stepping around a stack of cookbooks on the floor. “You really need to put these away, before one of us breaks our neck. Oh, and can you check the mail? I think that baking magazine came in, and Chuck wants to borrow your copy. See you for dinner?” He hardly waits for Castiel's ‘yes, dear,’ before taking off out the front door and down the steps. Castiel yawns and stretches. His cotton pajamas drag on the floor as he crosses the room to peer out through the sheer curtains to the sidewalk below. Victor marches down the street, as if into battle. But then, working at an award winning restaurant in New York City is its own war.

Castiel smiles softly and pads to his computer. Victor is right; there are cookbooks and magazines covering nearly every inch of flat surface in his apartment. Where he is to put them away however, he has no clue. The bookshelves are stuffed to capacity, and there isn’t room for more. But Castiel likes it that way. He likes being surrounded by recipes and articles and photographs of delicious food. They’re like old friends, sharing old family secrets through glossy pages. The walls are decorated with framed reviews, milestone tributes, and yellowed newspaper clippings regarding the shop. Photographs of his mother and siblings are pinned to the bulletin board, along with postcards from numerous road trips and family vacations he has passed up to stay and run the business. The kitchen, in comparison to the rest of the apartment, is spotless. Castiel’s mother taught him at a very young age to keep the kitchen tidy. Efficiency and quality are greatly improved with an orderly workspace. He sits down at the cluttered desk, sinking into his comfy, plush chair. A crisp breeze ripples through the open window, along with the sounds of the city. Castiel waits for his laptop to power up, toes curling against the hardwood in anticipation. As soon as it is on, he logs into his email and checks his inbox. Four new messages.

**From: Anna Milton**  
**To: Castiel Novak**  
**Subject: Honeymoon pictures!**

**From: Balthazar Fremont**  
**To: Castiel Novak**  
**Subject: your wretched girlfriend**

**From: KA2Y5**  
**To: bakeryboy**  
**Subject: Baby**

**From: Sarah Blake**  
**To: Castiel Novak**  
**Subject: Re: Cake Design**

Castiel skips the first two messages, rolling his eyes at the second. His heart rate increases as he clicks the third. The email opens and he hungrily devours the text.

_Baby is my ’67 chevy impala. She sits in a garage for weeks at a time, and most days I stop by to turn her on and check the engine, even though I know she hasn’t gone anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I love the city and all, but there’s something about the open road I’ll never get used to missing. I take road trips sometimes, upstate, when things aren’t too hectic. You wouldn’t believe the views. Or maybe you would. Maybe you’re from somewhere with lots of pretty landscapes and shit. Man, you better not be Canadian. That’s the kinda thing I’d know about you if we knew each other. Do you have a car?_

Castiel reads through the message four times, and then he begins to type.

_No, I do not have a car, nor a license. I am, however, in possession of a bicycle. And to answer your unasked question, yes, I have spent time in a place with pretty landscapes. Alberta, actually. I lived there from ages sixteen to eighteen. Don’t worry though, I’m not Canadian. I must admit, this whole anonymous thing can be rather irksome at times. Every morning I am ecstatic to log onto my computer, scroll down past emails from my sister and old college roommate, until I reach your screen name. KA2Y5. I read your messages at least twice before responding, and even then, I sometimes go back later to read them again. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s the fact that I feel somewhat of a bond between us. Kindred spirits, if you will. Either way, the best part of my day is reading notes from someone I do not know, and may not ever know. Do you have any cats?_

Satisfied with his response, Castiel clicks the little green SEND arrow at the top of the webpage and signs off. He quickly searches Google Images for a 1967 Chevrolet Impala and smiles. He closes his laptop and turns away, chest still thumping slightly. By the time he’s showered and dressed, though, KA2Y5 is somewhere at the back of his mind. He has so much to do today. A wedding cake delivery at ten (he’ll send Jo, yes, she’s always good with deliveries, and, somehow, always ends up making extra in tips), a baby shower pick up at noon (Garth is incredible with women, despite his lemur eyes and scrawny stature, he’ll be able to sell them at least double their order), and there will no doubt be at least a dozen walk-ins for birthday cakes all day. Castiel dresses swiftly and leaves his apartment. He stops at a coffeeshop on his way to the bakery, and at the farmer’s market he buys a couple pumpkins, the small ones. He can set up a nice little display in the window with some cupcakes. Yes, those fondant turkeys will look adorable.

Manhattan truly is a sight to behold in Autumn. The sounds of the city fill his body, making his nerves buzz with something more than caffeine. Things always happens in Autumn. A young mother pushes a stroller as she walks a little dog, talking cheerfully into a cellphone. Two men negotiate a fair price for cod. Castiel catches a whiff from the back of the delivery truck as he passes. He scrunches his nose and takes a long sip of espresso. Even these unsavory moments brighten his day; they are the goings-on of the city, all part of a massive machine. A flock of birds takes off out of a small tree, chirping overhead. Joggers lope along the curb, into Central Park. Castiel imagines the sound of an old, boxy car rumbling down the street. Vendors are still setting up their little carts, and he is tempted to buy a donut or something, as he’d skipped breakfast again. Victor is always lecturing him about the importance of regular mealtimes. He supposes chefs are like that, all persnickety about anything to do with food. As a baker, he is much more mellow, much more easygoing. He purchases an onion bagel to appease the sound of Victor's voice in his head, and eats it as he walks. The bread is warm and soft, more enjoyable than expected for being bought off the street. Or perhaps he’s just in a rather good mood. As he approaches the bakery, a small, blonde figure waves from her spot on the little green bench. Castiel grins and hands her the pumpkins.

“Good morning, Joanna Beth,” he sings. Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Someone’s happy this morning,” she says, voice still sleepy, as Castiel unlocks the front door. Castiel shrugs.

“It’s a nice day,” he sighs, letting them into the bakery. Jo grumbles incoherently and follows him inside. Castiel sees the place everyday, and yet he’ll never get used to that first moment every morning, walking in after being away for a good twelve hours. It’s warm and friendly and cozy and his absolute favorite place on Earth. Filled with memories of his childhood. It smells like flaky croissants, like half-baked cookie dough, like just-whipped buttercream frosting. Like honey and biscuits. He flips the lights on and retrieves the fondant turkeys from one of the big, industrial refrigerators in the back. He hums and takes the little pumpkins from Jo. He unpacks the little bag of straw he’d brought with him and begins setting up a display.

“Are you _humming?_ ” Jo asks incredulously from behind him. Castiel glances over his shoulder and blushes.

“No. I’m just… talking to myself. How was your exam?” He continues to hum.

“Totally bombed it,” she scrutinizes him for a moment. “You’re totally humming. What’s with you today? Something’s got you all loopy.” Castiel puts the finishing touches on his display and takes a step back, appraising his work.

“Needs some pilgrims, I think,” he murmurs to himself, still smiling. “Bombed it? Can you ask for a retake?”

Jo rolls her eyes and fetches two aprons from the kitchen, ignoring his question. She tosses one to Castiel and ties her own on, still eyeing him suspiciously. Castiel takes his place behind the large wooden counter and begins rolling pretzel dough. The humming starts up again. Jo sits on a barstool across from him and crosses her arms.

“I’m not doing any work ’til you tell me what’s going on.” Her expression is one of great determination, and Castiel can’t help but laugh. He sighs in defeat.

“Alright. Fine. Let me ask you something.” He takes a great pause, deliberating on how to phrase his next words. “Would you consider an online friendship adultery?” He stops his kneading to gauge Jo’s reaction. She raises her eyebrows again.

“You have an online relationship? Didn’t even know you had the technical savvy to turn a computer on.”

“Just answer,” says Castiel, smudging flour on her nose.

Jo purses her lips. “I mean, it depends. Is it sexy?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Sexy. Is it kinky? Like sexting.”

“Um. No. Not at all. It’s just.. I don’t know. We just talk.” Castiel drops his gaze from Jo’s unbroken stare. She ‘hmph’s.

“Well, if it’s not sexy, then I don’t see how it could be considered cheating. Anyway, who is this person?”

“Just someone I met in a chatroom,” Castiel blushes again. He isn’t normally one to peruse online forums, but he’d felt a bit lonely, and the internet is a well-known cure to loneliness. And, incidental, also an aggravator.

“You go on chatrooms? Aren’t you just full of surprises today!”

Castiel returns to kneading. “It was sort of a low point in my week. And you know, I’m considering ending our correspondence. I don’t even know the guy.”

“Well. Then you definitely won’t meet him. Unless you already have. He could be a regular and you’d never even know it.” The bells above the door jangle as she finishes her sentence, announcing Garth’s arrival. Jo turns to him, leaning back against the counter on her elbows. “Garth, do you sext?”

“All the time. Why, you wanna give me your number?” He waggles his brows and Jo mimes gagging.

“You already have my number, idiot, and if you ever sext me, I’ll shove your cellphone up your—“

The bells chime again, and in steps Frank. He’s an older man, in his late sixties, whose mind is slowly deteriorating. But he makes the best apple pie New York has ever tasted, so Castiel keeps him around. Plus, the man is a family friend.

“What are you kids chatting about?” He asks, waddling over to the counter, arms overflowing with bags of fresh gala, granny smith, fuji, and golden delicious apples. His scarf trails on the ground, dragging a few dead leaves into the shop by its end tassels.

“Sexting,” Jo answers, and thus commences the day’s topic of conversation. She and Frank swap stories as they stock the fridge, while Garth takes the phone line. Castiel flips the closed sign and rounds the counter, ready for the first customer of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a You've Got Mail AU, and will therefore be alike in storyline and, sometimes, dialogue. The first few chapters will be plagiaristically similar, but then the plot will deviate a little and take on a voice of its own. Bear with me.
> 
> Also, I just made up the word "plagiaristically."


	2. Winchester Grocery

Dean’s been awake for a total of two minutes before Lisa tempts him into the shower. That has to be a record; usually he only gets thirty seconds. Steam and giggles fill the bathroom, along with the sultry contralto of Norah Jones. They spend a good fifteen minutes fooling around beneath the spray. Living with a yoga instructor has certainly improved Dean’s flexibility. 

“You’re coming next week?” Dean asks as they stand embraced. He feels her lips curve into a smile against his skin. 

“You’ve asked me four times, you know,” she teases, looking up at him, petting his chest. Water drops cling to her eyelashes. He pinches her hip lightly. “Dean! Yes! Of course I’m coming to the dinner party. Now wish me good luck trying to teach a group of seniors downward-facing dog.” She gives him one more wet kiss before stepping out of the shower. When Dean walks into the bedroom fifteen minutes later, she’s gone. 

He takes his time getting dressed; there’s still a good hour between now and the start of construction for the day. He’s got his flannel halfway buttoned, one shoe on, and part of his undershirt tucked in as he rummages through the refrigerator. It’s stocked mostly with Lisa’s weird health food. He grabs his milk, avoiding her impostor soy crap, and takes a swig from the carton. He screws the cap back on and pads around the apartment. The place is swanky; exposed brick walls in the living room, floor to ceiling windows, lighting fixtures similar to the ones Dean is sure he’s spotted in his lawyers fancy office. The couch is huge and made of some velvety material, and it’s accented with tons of gold-toned pillows. 

“Why do we need pillows on the couch?” Dean had asked. Lisa had given him a look. 

“They’re throw pillows, Dean. They’re for decoration and comfort.” So he’d bought them, along with a large brown blanket made of something finer than spun silk. 

Eventually he stops at his desk. Dean sighs. Alright. He can afford to check his email. He’s got plenty of time. Everyone checks their email in the morning. He flops down in the plush desk chair and turns the computer on, chatting with Lisa’s goldfish while he waits for the machine to boot up. His desktop wallpaper pops up, and Dean’s heart throbs a little. He’s like one of Pavlov’s dogs. His fingers begin to itch, like his limbs have become separate sentient beings, fidgeting in anticipation. He surfs the web, cleans out his documents folder, deliberately drawing this out, testing his self-control. It takes three minutes for him to break and hurriedly log into his email account. He misspells his password twice. His eyes skim across to the sidebar. 

Inbox (1) 

He holds his breath. It’s from bakeryboy. Dean closes his eyes for one prolonged moment, cursing himself. Angels with trumpets dance across the insides of his eyelids. 

He double clicks the message. 

_No, I do not have a car, nor a license. I am, however, in possession of a bicycle. And to answer your unasked question, yes, I have spent time in a place with pretty landscapes. Alberta, actually. I lived there from ages sixteen to eighteen. Don’t worry though, I’m not Canadian. I must admit, this whole anonymous thing can be rather irksome at times. Every morning I am ecstatic to log onto my computer, scroll down past emails from my sister and old college roommate, until I reach your screen name. KA2Y5. I read your messages at least twice before responding, and even then, I sometimes go back later to read them again. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s the fact that I feel somewhat of a bond between us. Kindred spirits, if you will. Either way, the best part of my day is reading notes from someone I do not know, and may not ever know. Do you have any cats?_  

Cats? So the guy is a cat person. Dean mulls over this and types a response. He finishes the milk and tosses the carton into the stainless steel trashcan Lisa picked out when they moved in. For all his griping, he really does appreciate the initiative she’s taken since they started living together; if he’d been moving in alone, his garbage would still go in a shopping bag and sit by the door for days on end. He wonders if bakeryboy has one of those shiny, silver cylinders in his kitchen. He wonders what the guy does, other than baking. He’s mentioned gardening, and how he wishes the city was an easier place to grow tomatoes and cucumbers. Thinking about him always brings Dean back to the same prickling curiosity that’s nagged at him since the whole thing started; what the hell does this guy look like? He knows it’s shallow, and it’s not like he cares that much, but still. He’s ridiculously curious. 

Dean groans and flings an elbow over his face. Light eyes. Yeah. He’s got light eyes. 

At nine-thirty, Dean leaves the apartment and takes a shortcut to work. It’s crisp out, but the air is bogged down a little by the combined smells of garbage, subway grime, burning meat, and construction smoke. As always. He wrinkles his nose and walks faster. 

When he arrives, Donna is munching on a powdered mini donut, waving it around as she reprimands one of the construction heads, sprinkling sugar all over the place. Dean smiles. She approaches him when she’s finished with the guy, shaking her head. 

“They put the deli counter four feet too far left. Bolted the damn thing! I told ‘em, yank it up and put it where it’s supposed to go! We’ve got floor plans and blueprints for a reason.” She offers him the donut and Dean accepts, taking a large bite, getting white dust all over his jacket. She talks as they walk, clipboard under her arm. “The produce bins haven’t arrived, and someone lost track of three hundred lightbulbs. Still set to open in thirty-seven days, though.” Dean nods and fixes himself a cup of joe as she talks, glancing around at the bakery section. It still needs a lot of work; some of the lights aren’t put in all the way, the kitchen isn’t finished, and there’s a thin, inevitable layer of sawdust over everything.

“How are we on time?” He asks around the mouthful of pastry. 

Donna’s eyes narrow. “I just told you. We’re good on time.” 

“Oh, right. Fantastic!” Dean smiles and claps her on the shoulder. She looks mildly concerned. 

“What’s with you today?” She pushes his shoulder lightly, leaving powdery fingerprints behind. Dean laughs and shrugs. 

“Nothing! Can’t a guy be a in a good mood?” He nearly shouts over the sound of a nearby drill. Someone falls off a ladder behind him and Donna glances over, unperturbed, and then directs her attention back to Dean.

“Did you pop the question?” She asks suddenly, excitedly. Dean chokes on his coffee. 

“No! Hell no! God no,” he wipes his face, “Are you out of your mind?” 

Donna rolls her eyes at Dean’s dramatics. “What’s wrong with asking Lisa to marry you?” They begin walking again and Dean considers this. The ladder guy has one foot stuck in a rung, and two other workers are helping free him. 

“Nothing is _wrong_ with asking Lisa to marry me. It’s just.. There’s nothing particularly… _Right_ about it either.” He knows that isn’t an answer, but Donna won’t press him. “Look, I love her, alright? She's wonderful. Bendier than a pool noodle.” There’s a small pause in the conversation and Dean takes it as a window of opportunity to change the subject. “You know what we should do? We should put up signs. Something simple, just to start people talking.” 

“Dean, this neighborhood is full of small business owners. Dry cleaners and barbershops, yes, but also butcher shops, fish markets, bakeries. These people have a local grocery system. They’re not going to react well to a—“

“Big corporation swooping in, I know. But we’ll win them over. We’ll be offering cheaper food, that’s still good quality. Promotions, coupons, membership cards. Local food shops don’t offer those things. And no matter what, people always give in. Don’t worry.” 

Dean turns to survey the store, pleased with the week’s progress. He pulls out his phone and calls the contractor about those signs. Winchester Grocery. Maybe some anthropomorphic vegetables. A smiling baguette. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late! I was having internet troubles, and then I got slammed with school/work, and I had to put off uploading. But here's the next chapter!


	3. Coming Soon

Midmorning always brings an influx of customers—the bakery has famously delicious croissants. Flaky and soft and buttery, wonderful sandwiching smoked salmon or drizzled with honey, but just as good alone. Castiel spent years perfecting the recipe, which has most definitely paid off. He’s got customers that come from Brooklyn just to buy a little box of his croissants. The most he’ll sell to one customer is a half dozen, of course, because the thought of someone eating one when it’s dried out and crunchy is downright terrifying. They’re meant to be eaten fresh, still warm and heavenly. Delightful enough to put anyone in a good mood. 

Aside from Jo, at least. She’s currently bickering with an old woman about the price of donuts, which is clearly printed on the price board as 75¢. 

“Ma’am, I won’t tell you again, six donuts cost four-fifty. If you want the discount, you have to buy the whole dozen.” Normally, Castiel would jump in and take over, because her tone is becoming snappish. But he’s working on a wedding cake design for a rather high-profile client; the groom comes from a wealthy family of business men, and it shows in their requests. The five-tier creation will take at least eighteen hours to complete. The bride—Ms. Blake—is to come in the following day and go over his ideas, and her requirements. She’s friendly enough, nicer than a lot of brides Castiel has made cakes for, though perhaps that has something to do with the fact that she does not hail from New York. 

Castiel glances up as Jo gives up on the donut woman, stomping out of the store to make deliveries. He checks the time and continues making sugar paste, which he’ll fashion into a variety of small flowers. Tomorrow, he’ll present them to Ms. Blake and she’ll choose her favorite designs. Even with the hectic buzz of constant noise in the bakery, there is a sense of serenity which settles over Castiel as he works. He flattens the piece with his fingertips before sending it through the rollers, and then lays it out and begins to cut petals, before using a pressing tool to add veins. After thinning the edges to add ruffle, he puts the petals together in a fan shape, using sugar glue to adhere them. The stamen is set in the middle and the petals are rolled and overlapped to create the flower. He sets it to dry for painting later and begins crafting a marigold. 

It’s therapeutic, despite being work. He is doing something he is good at, something he’s been trained in, something for which people admire his craft. He is confident behind the counter, with his apron and rolling pin and pasta machine. He finds solace and meaning in his work. 

The distinctive snicker of his older brother breaks Castiel’s concentration, and he mistakenly shatters a petal. Gabriel has both hands on Kali’s table, leaning forward, unabashedly flirting with her. She doesn’t seem bothered. He sees that Castiel has spotted him and says goodbye quickly, before strutting over to the counter. 

“Hey, little brother,” he smiles, that impish smile that makes it seem like he’s misbehaved. Castiel squints at him. 

“Don’t flirt with my customers. Especially the engaged ones,” he intones, leaning forward. Gabriel’s smirk vanishes for a moment before reappearing. 

“Engaged, Cas. Not married,” he winks and shoves three miniature cupcakes into his mouth. 

“Those are samples! For actual paying customers,” Castiel complains, shooing him away from the cake stand. “What are you doing here, anyway?” 

“Can’t I check in on my favorite sibling?” He asks, feigning innocence. Castiel rolls his eyes and retrieves a box. He fills it with assorted pastries, tapes it shut, and sets it on the glass counter. Gabriel grins and takes the offering, wedging it under his arm. He inclines toward Castiel, beckoning him closer with his free hand. “She won’t marry that chump,” he says with great conviction. Castiel exhales in frustration. 

“Don’t you dare go meddling in other people’s business, Gabriel,” he warns, glancing over at Kali. The Novaks have known the Chopras for a long time, and Castiel won’t have his moronic brother destroying decades of friendship over a delusion. He can still remember Kali’s older brother, Ganesh, giving him rides to school on his handlebars. 

Gabriel gives him that puckish smile again. “Won’t have to meddle. Just wait,” he says ominously, before springing forward to plant a kiss on Castiel’s cheek. He spins on his heel, throwing a suggestive eyebrow waggle toward Kali as swaggers out of the bakery. Castiel gives her an apologetic head-shake and a free cup of espresso. 

At half-past two, Castiel takes his lunch break on the bench outside, while there are still a few nice weeks left before every leaf in New York has drifted to the ground and it has grown too cold. Garth sits beside him and fishes his lunch out of a worn knapsack. They eat in companionable silence for a few minutes before he sets down his sandwich and turns to Castiel.

“Boss, we’ve got a problem,” Garth sighs wearily, pulling out his phone. He clicks the little camera icon and taps the first picture before handing the device over. Castiel stares and frowns. 

“Where was this taken?” He asks, keeping his voice level. He gets no response. “Garth.” 

“A couple blocks over. That construction site? This is what they’re working on. Boss, are we gonna go out of business?” Castiel meets Garth’s large grey eyes, usually bright and mischievous, now clouded with worry. 

“No,” he affirms, “This doesn’t change anything. In fact, it could be beneficial. Perhaps they need a supplier. Don’t worry.” As he speaks, Castiel’s eyes drift back to the image. The side of a large building, printed with the New York City skyline, the outline of which has been done in the shape of vegetables instead of buildings. Beneath this reads, “Winchester Grocery Coming Soon,” in elegant font. The Empire State Building is a stalk of asparagus.   

He tries not to think of it for the rest of the day. It shouldn’t affect business in the slightest; large chains like that, they’re impersonal and low-quality. The Corner Bakery has loyal customers, families that have been regulars for over fifty years, back when his grandfather ran the shop. The place opened in 1954, two years after James Novak and his family had arrived at Ellis Island from Warsaw, Poland. Castiel never met his great-grandfather, but his childhood was filled with countless hours helping his grandfather in the little shop. He can still remember the excitement, the great pride he felt at being allowed to stock display cases and knead dough. He’d hurry over after school, disregarding the television his brothers and sisters were so attached to. His grandfather would be waiting behind the counter to place the little paper hat on Castiel’s head, the one Anna had fashioned for him when it became apparent how entranced he was by working at the bakery. For a five year old with six older siblings, it was a rare treat to have his own responsibility. When he was twenty-two, his grandfather retired and left the store to him. He doesn’t want to imagine going out of business, doesn’t want to imagine New York City without his grandfather’s bakery. 

Castiel’s eyes are sore as his hands. He takes the train home instead of walking, fatigue and weariness setting in as he leans back against hard plastic. The fluorescent overhead lights flicker and make his brain buzz. He takes his phone out impulsively and begins opening and closing applications. Gabriel sent the sleek smartphone for Castiel’s twenty-seventh birthday a few months ago, and he’s still getting used to all of its features. He clicks through to the inbox and stares at his unread emails. Near the top is one from KA2Y5, but for some reason, Castiel doesn’t feel like opening it. If he does, his heart will grow warm and he’ll stop being upset, but he’ll also feel that longing that always comes with this stunted correspondence. And then he’ll seek comfort from someone he has never met. He glances around on the subway car, as if making sure no one can see the screen, before tapping on the message. 

_I’m actually allergic to cats. I had a dog for a while when I was a kid, but he ran away. His name was Bones. I know what you mean about getting all psyched about emails from a stranger. But you don’t really feel like a stranger. Maybe that’s weird. Is that weird? Sometimes I wonder if we’d even be friends outside of this. I mean, if we just met randomly. Would we get along? These online things are different. You have a chance to think about what you’re saying to a person, type it all out, look over it, decide whether it’s really worth saying. I’m not very tactful in reality and I wonder if that’d make a difference. See, now I’m getting introspective. I’m not an introspective person. You seem like an introspective person, though. What do you look like?_

Castiel sighs and puts his phone away. He feels himself stand at his stop and get off the train, climb up the stairs and walk down the street toward his apartment. But his head is still back on the subway, looking down at that email, scanning it over and over again. The words are burned into his memory, joining the thousands of others he has received over the past year. It seems strange that it’s been that long already; a year of emails and jokes and musings between New Yorkers. Although, there is no way of knowing if KA2Y5 is actually _from_ New York. Castiel only knows that he lives here. He could be from anywhere. Kansas, most likely. Unless the screen name is just a series of arbitrary numbers and letters. 

The little studio apartment is dark when Castiel walks in, just the orange light of the city seeping in through the curtains, casting shadows over his furniture. It looks unlived-in. Like someone unpacked all their boxes and then left. Even with the towers of books and magazines, there is something empty about his home. He receives a text from Victor as he’s turning lamps on.  

_ Can’t make dinner. Lunch date?  _

The tension in every muscle of his body melts into relief and he immediately feels awful for it. Of course he wants to see Victor, feel him wrap those strong arms around his waist, chest firm against his back. There is no one else on Earth who would listen to Castiel ramble on about icing textures and bagel toppings with such rapt interest, he knows. He’s lucky to have found someone with whom he shares a passion. 

He catches a glimpse of his reflection as he crosses the room to his closet. 

_What do you look like?_

He huffs as he takes off his floury work clothes, a small cloud of dust rising as he sheds the articles. After padding around aimlessly in his underwear for a solid fifteen minutes, Castiel grabs his laptop and gets into bed. He sits cross-legged, jiggling the stuck F key, tapping, fidgeting. Eventually he opens his email. 

 

_Why do you care what I look like?_

 

He deletes that quickly.

 

_Are looks important to you?_

 

That sounds a little pathetic. 

 

_What happened to the whole “anonymous” thing?_

 

Tap, tap, tap, forty-six more taps.

 

_No personal information, remember?_

 

He highlights and cuts the whole sentence, sparing his backspace key.

 

_Screw off._

 

He doesn’t send that either, but lets it sit there for a moment, staring, cursor blinking patiently at him. After another fifteen minutes of unproductiveness, he closes the computer and places it on the bedside table before getting up to turn all the lights off. 

Curled up in bed, beneath layers of wool and cotton, Castiel lets himself speculate. 

At 3:17, Castiel is still awake, and shivering. He should have put on pajamas. A shirt, at least. He could get out of bed and riffle through his dresser for something warm and cozy, but that would mean leaving the blankets. He wonders what KA2Y5 looks like. If he’s tall or short, or average. If his teeth are crooked or straight. If he has dark skin or pale skin or olive skin. It shouldn’t matter, and it doesn’t, truly, because regardless of what this man looks like, Castiel will find him lovely. He already does. But he’s curious. He sits up and rubs at the knots in his right shoulder. The skin over his knuckles is dry and cracking, so he reaches across to the side table for a bottle of hand cream. His fingertips glide over the cool, smooth surface of his cellphone and he grabs that instead. He opens up the email app and responds before there is time to consider the words typed. 

 

 _ What do  _ you _ look like?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Chapter 3. Please feel free to leave feedback/(constructive) criticism, comments make my day and encourage faster writing. Thank you all for reading.


	4. Ruffle Cake

Winchester Grocery headquarters is located on the top floor of a glittering building in Midtown, and Dean despises it. The place is ostentatious and full of unhelpful secretaries, all clip-clopping around in their heels and expensive outerwear. Dean is eighty percent sure that the reception dude at the front desk is wearing women’s perfume. He’s got to admit though, the guy has a nice manicure. 

“Good morning, Mr. Winchester,” his father’s personal assistant, Tessa, beams brightly at him from beside the door marked ‘CEO.’ Dean responds with a tight-lipped smile and half a wave. He always finds himself wondering what she’s doing working for his father; she’s got the resources and skill to run her own company, doesn’t make sense that she’d settle for an administrative position in a grocery chain. She gestures him through to the office. 

John and Henry Winchester are seated across from each other at the desk, arguing over what to order for lunch. Dean smiles and sidles behind the bar to make himself a drink. He’s lounging on the plush sofa, flipping through emails, by the time they acknowledge his presence.  

“Dean,” John finally looks over at him, exasperated, “Tell your grandfather he can’t have Chinese for lunch again. He’ll stink up the whole floor.” Henry swats a pale, liver-spotted hand at John’s head, who easily dodges it. Dean snorts, only half paying attention to his family. 

_What do_ you _look like?_  

 

Well played, bakeryboy. 

 

_I look like the lizard from the GEICO commercials. You seem particularly sassy today._

 

He sends his reply quickly and sits up.

“Neither of you can have Chinese; you’re both gaseous enough as it is,” Dean sniggers, pocketing his phone, regarding the office with greater interest than usual. “Hey, did you do somethin’ in here? It seems snazzier.” The floor-to-ceiling windows are now covered with some sort of sheer fabric, nicer than transparent curtains have any necessity to be. The carpet has been torn up and replaced with hardwood, and a thick, Persian rug. There are fancy lamps all over the pace and a little chandelier toward the middle of the room. It looks like the small lobby of a three-star hotel. And it’s totally not Winchester style. 

John huffs, mildly embarrassed. “Kate thought the place could use some redecorating. It’s.. Well. She’s happy, so I’m happy.”

“Your father is getting remarried,” Henry grumbles, without even an attempt at disguising his disdain. Dean raises his eyebrows but says nothing; he likes Kate a hell of a lot more than the last one; some twenty-three year old volleyball player named Lilith who’d tried to feel him up at the reception.

“Dad, would you give it a rest?” John groans, throwing back the rest of his drink. “Adam is almost six. He thinks we’re married.” Dean takes this as an opportunity to change the subject. 

“Speaking of marriage, either of you RSVP’d to Sam’s wedding?” 

Henry clears his throat. “Your father didn’t receive an invitation.” Dean blinks. 

“That’s.. Not very surprising. I’ll talk to him, Pops,” he offers swiftly, averting John’s eyes. He’s ashamed, and rightly so. He’d thrown a total fit when Sam decided to go into law instead of business, claiming his youngest son was “betraying the family.” It was all extremely dramatic. 

“He’ll do whatever he wants to do,” John grumbles, returning to the stack of paperwork on his mahogany desk. “How’s construction?” He asks, without looking up again. 

Dean gives up the satiny throw pillow he’s been messing with in favor of his Scotch. “It’s good. Great. Right on schedule. Donna’s worried about how the locals are reacting. Doesn’t seem positive so far. Someone spray painted a dick onto the eggplant Chrysler Building.” 

John lets out a gruff snort. “Why do people have to go and turn honest vegetables into genitalia?” 

“Lots of vegetables look like penises, Dad. But hey, guess what trendy eco-chic supermarket just went under.” 

“The one on 6th?” John looks up then, pleased. “What a shame, people were really benefitting from gluten free soy pasta.” 

“We bought ‘em out,” Dean shrugs like it’s nothing major, when in actuality it took him weeks to secure that deal. “But we’ll make sure to have a health food section.”

“Good. That’ll shut them up, the pseudo-hippie—“

“Customers, you mean?” Dean interjects, mildly amused. 

“They’re money,” he says dismissively, standing finally. He claps Dean on the back on his way to the bar. 

“What’s our competition, then?” Henry asks, reclining in his seat. 

“Some kosher minimart a few streets over and a pastry shop or something. Corner Bakery, I think. It’s been there for ages.”

Henry sits up abruptly, frowning. “Novak’s,” he mutters, suddenly very interested in his pocket watch. 

“Yeah, that’s it. You know them?” 

“Arthur Novak. We lived in the same apartment building during college. He was only a few years younger than I was. We were… Friends. We’d leave notes in each other’s mailboxes. He was quite the poet,” his grandfather says quietly, smiling. He glances over toward John. Dean scoots forward and leans in. 

“Go on.” 

Henry shakes his head. “We were friends,” he repeats. “Arthur took the shop over after his father passed away. And then he left it to his grandson. He runs it now.” 

“Not for long,” John calls over from the bar as he plops the olives into his martini. 

Dean feels his phone buzz from inside his breast pocket and pulls it out again. He’s surprised to see that his message has received a response so quickly. 

_Oh yes, extremely sassy. I had Indian for lunch. Always increases my sass levels. I don’t think I’ve ever been called sassy before, now that I think of it. I like it. On a serious note, I do want to make it clear that your physical appearance is not of import to me. Not because I believe I’ll never see you (which seems to be the case as of now), but because you have already made an impression on me, one that will not be tarnished nor improved based on looks. This does not apply to actions, words, etc. Those are the things on which I base opinion. For instance, if my physical appearance would in some way change your view of me, that in itself would lower my own respect for you. I hope that makes sense._

He chuckles and begins replying.

 

When Dean gets home, the entire apartment smells of vanilla, and Lisa is sitting in bed, wearing one of his old band t-shirts. He drops his briefcase and crawls up the mattress between her legs, placing kisses along her bare calves and thighs. She doesn’t look away from her iPad, though her hand comes to rest at the back of Dean’s neck, fingernails grazing at his scalp. He tugs at her underwear gently, and she lets her legs fall open, giving Dean better access. He sheds the article, glancing up to see if she’s at all interested. She’s unperturbed, but doesn’t seem to mind. 

Just as he’s about to get started, the heinous sound of his ringtone blares from inside his bag. He groans and Lisa nudges him away. 

“Get it, I’m fine,” she mumbles distractedly, clearly content to keep working. Dean rolls his eyes and wiggles off the bed with a good amount of effort, gracelessly grabs his briefcase, throws it open and finds his cellphone. 

Sam’s fish face from about six years ago flashes on the screen and he answers grumpily. 

“What?” 

“Dean, I need a favor,” Sam says urgently, getting straight to business. There’s noise in the background, like he’s somewhere crowded.

“Anything for my darling baby brother,” Dean grunts, stomping toward the kitchen in pursuit of a drink. 

“My flight has been cancelled and I won’t make it back to the city tonight. I need you to go with Sarah to the cake tasting.” There’s some sort of beeping on his end. Dean realizes belatedly that Sam is in an airport. He scoffs around his beer.

“Isn’t that why she has a maid of honor?” 

“Bela’s got a big meeting, she can’t make it. Dean, come on, this is your duty as best man,” he can hear his brother getting impatient, but he’s about to protest some more when Sam adds, “You’ll get to eat a ton of cake.” 

Dean pauses and eyes the leftover corn salad from last night. It’s sitting in the fridge in a plastic container. “Pie’d be better,” Dean grumbles resignedly. He hears Sam’s exhale of relief. 

“Thank you. Meet her at the apartment around noon, alright?” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean continues to grouse as he pops open the top of the stupid corn thing and begins to eat it straight from the tupperware. “But you gotta call Dad. Sort this out before your wedding day.” 

Sam snorts. “Sure, that’ll happen. Look, I have to go, they’re booking the hotel. Thanks again.” The line goes dead and Dean shovels more corn into his mouth. 

Lisa is asleep when he returns to the bedroom, tablet resting on her chest.  

He’s restless beside her, even after showering and curling up beneath the downy blankets. The dark prickles his eyelids, making spots and colors dance across his vision. He stares blindly around the room for a moment, then toward the place on the side table he knows he set his phone. He can’t see it, but he knows it’s there. Possibly holding an email from… His brother. Sure, Sam could have emailed him. Or maybe Donna. Maybe there’s a problem with construction. Yeah, a late night emergency. Dean reaches for his phone, overshooting where he left it and slamming his fingers into the heavy brass lamp stand. He swallows down a yelp of pain and snatches the device. 

Under the covers, he clicks in his passcode, nearly mistyping it with an unsteady grip he blames on sleepiness. He scrolls through his email and feels his heart quicken in anticipation. 

But there’s nothing. He frowns and scans through the messages again. 

Nothing. 

He returns his cellphone to the side table and rolls onto his back, staring up into the blackness. Hours pass and the closest he gets to slumber is a prolonged blink. Dean wonders what his friend, the one he’s never met, is doing right now. He’s probably asleep. Or maybe he’s an early riser. Maybe he’s taking a jog. Or brewing coffee. Or reading the paper. There are a thousand places he could be, a thousand things he could be doing, over eight million people he could be with. And Dean is staring up at his paling bedroom ceiling, wondering. 

 

Around eleven, he forces himself out of bed and into the shower. He scalds his tongue on hot coffee over the morning paper and meets Sarah outside her apartment at noon sharp. She’s practically glowing, and Dean can see why Sam fell so quickly for the girl. As they set off down the street, her hand slips around his arm. She talks his ear off about wedding plans, but he’s glad he showed up.

As soon as they round the corner, Dean knows where they’re headed. Damn it. He should’ve asked. He should have found out which bakery they were going to. And of course, out of all the bakeries in New York City, it has to be this one. The Corner Bakery. The bakery Dean is trying to put out of business. Maybe he can get out of this. Fake an illness or something. 

He grits his teeth as they approach, glancing sideways at Sarah. Shit. There’s no way he’s bailing on her. Not when she’s got that whole glowing bride thing going. She catches him staring and grins widely, showing off ridiculously perfect teeth—the same perfect teeth Sam bragged about four years prior, when he’d first met her. Dean curses himself. 

A little bell chimes above the door as they enter, and Dean can’t help the wave of satisfaction that rolls over him. It’s like walking into a giant apple pie. He can practically taste the flaky crust, the warm fruit, the caramelized sugar. 

“Isn’t this place cute?” Sarah gushes, tugging his arm, pointing at all the little displays. Dean looks around, sizing the place up, trying to block out that heavenly aroma. It’s doing things to him. He nods, makes a noise of agreement. Midday sunshine slants in through the large windows, bathing the place in warm Autumn light. In glass cases lay rows of assorted bagels, everything from onion to poppyseed to blueberry. Donuts, eclairs, and croissants fill another shelf, and there is separate case devoted entirely to sweets. Sugar glimmers on soft-looking cookies, chocolate frosting sits heavily on what appear to be fudge brownies, raspberries and blackberries balance on bite-sized tarts. There’s a little table overflowing with bread, in large braided loaves, skinny baguettes, little round biscuits. And then there are pies. Pies stocked into a cylindrical, turning display case. Dean might pass out. 

“Ms. Blake?” If a crackling fire could talk, it would sound like the voice coming out of the man walking toward Dean and Sarah. He’s tall, with a mop of dark, unruly hair, and unfairly sharp cheekbones. And he’s wearing one of those white, double-breasted chef jackets with the sleeves rolled up. It’s completely spotless. “I’m Castiel, welcome to the Corner Bakery,” he smiles, extending a hand. Dean’s arm shoots out of it’s own accord, grasping the man’s palm before Sarah gets a chance, but his mouth stays firmly shut. Castiel’s hand is warm and soft. Dean imagines stuffing his fist into a loaf of freshly baked bread would feel similarly. 

Sarah nudges him a little. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Castiel,” she gives that dazzling smile again, “I’m Sarah, and this is Sam’s brother, Dean W—”

“What a nice store you’ve got,” Dean booms, garnering the attention of the entire bakery. He coughs and clears his throat. “I mean… It smells great,” he supplies, coloring red to the tips of his ears. Castiel smiles fondly, and for split second, Dean imagines it’s for him instead of the store. 

“It was my grandfather's,” he murmurs, eyes going soft. Dean looks away. He really doesn’t want to hear anything else, and Castiel doesn’t continue. “I’ll get the samples.” He excuses himself to the kitchen and Dean turns to Sarah. 

“Care to explain what that was about?” She asks, voice measured. 

“He can’t know my last name, alright? Not today,” Dean whisper-shouts, straightening as Castiel reappears. He gives her another look and she nods in semi-understanding. The baker is precariously balancing a tray of tiny square cakes in one hand, carrying a bottle of champagne and glasses in the other. He leads them to an empty table near the counter and sets everything down, flattening his coat. Dean gets the feeling he doesn’t wear it often. There are small labels next to each little cake, but Castiel points them out anyway, gesturing to each piece with graceful fingers.  

“This is a lemon-thyme cake, alternating layers of lemon curd and vanilla, with a buttercream frosting and sugared lemon, garnished with thyme sprigs. Here we have a white crème framboise laced with raspberries, covered with a sage fondant. This one is an orange cake with passionfruit and lime syrup, and mixed citrus buttercream. Now this is one of our best sellers; it’s vanilla batter blended with chopped dates, brushed with a special toffee sauce made in house, and then infused with bourbon-laced brown-sugar buttercream. This is a cherry blossom cake. Mexican chocolate made with chili powder and cinnamon. A pear cake with blackberry preserves. And then we’ve got the plain chocolates; this one is filled with ganache, and the other is mixed with crushed espresso beans. Oh, and the chocolate cream cheese.” 

Dean is glad he skipped breakfast. The cakes are goddamn delicious, and he hates himself for enjoying them so much; it feels treacherous. Some of them are rich and luxurious, others are lighter, easy on the palate. Halfway through, his shirt is getting uncomfortably tight around the midsection, and the waistband of his jeans is digging a little. Thankfully, they take a break after the first five samples. He sighs and steps back a little as Sarah and Castiel start going over the cakes, but his plan to slink away for some phone calls is thwarted when they both look at him expectantly. 

“Um… What?” 

Castiel smiles. “I asked what your favorite one so far is,” he says patiently. He’s got nice eyebrows. They’re friendly. Expressive. 

“Ah. Uh. They’re all good?” Dean glances at Sarah.

“I liked the lemon-thyme. It was refreshing after all that chocolate.” She and Castiel begin discussing design ideas, and he excuses himself to get something else. He comes back with another tray, this one filled with flowers. He sets them on the table and Dean approaches, eyes going wide. 

“Are these…” 

“Sugar paste,” Castiel nods, and proceeds to point out the various types. There are roses, lotuses, tulips, heather, violets, daises, lilies, daffodils, peonies, and some Dean doesn't recognize at all. They’re each meticulously crafted, obviously given the utmost care and effort. They look real, freshly picked. It’s astounding. 

“Holy shit,” Dean huffs, eyeing a magnolia. He’s interrupted, he knows, but these are incredible. 

Castiel smiles again, this time bashfully. “I’ll consider that a compliment?” 

Dean nods. “These are… What you do… Man. You made all these?” 

“Yes.”

He continues his examination of the little candy flowers, the way their petals lay, how they’re all painted and finely sculpted. They’re too beautiful to eat. He’s vaguely aware of Sarah and Castiel discussing styles, only drawn back into the conversation when Castiel produces a set of sketches. The designs he’s drafted are incredible, unlike anything Dean has seen before, and certainly too detailed to be called sketches.

“Oh, I forgot to email you! We decided on a smaller reception, only a few friends and family,” Sarah interjects, running her fingers over the magnificent designs. Castiel nods and rolls them back up. 

“Not a problem. I can come up with some over the weekend. Or we can brainstorm now.” He fishes out a blank sheet of paper and places it on the table, smoothing it out. Dean notices his hands again. They’re large and delicate at once, soft, but dexterous. The hard angles of his knuckles and veins make them seem strong, though there’s a youthfulness to them. Castiel is natural and sure as he sketches, quickly coming up with a few new options for Sarah to choose from. Dean zones out again as they each rattle off terms he doesn’t quite comprehend—something about lattice work and swiss dot and petal dust. 

They move on to the other samples, which are delicious as the ones previously tasted. Without much input from Dean, it is decided that the first tier will be the pear and blackberry, and the second tier will be something called “ruffle cake,” with the lemon-thyme. Sarah picks dogwood flowers because she and Sam are moving to Virginia soon after the wedding.  

It’s nearing one thirty, and Dean is absurdly full of cake and champagne. “Jesus Christ, if you keep feeding me, I’ll never get out the door,” he huffs to Castiel. Sarah is at the counter, paying for a box of croissants Sam’ll no doubt finish in one sitting. 

“I take it you enjoyed the tasting,” Castiel laughs, and Dean leans toward him involuntarily. He seems much more confident now, shoulders relaxed, eyes playful. 

“You’ve almost converted me; I’m more of a pie man,” he admits. Now that all the cake is gone, he can smell that crisp baked apple he’d been greeted with upon first entering the shop. 

“We bake the best pies in New York,” Castiel replies. He doesn’t sound boastful, simply matter-of-fact. “You must take one.” 

Dean is led to the pie case, where they stand side by side, watching as the glass rotates. 

“So you said this was your grandfather’s shop,” he mentions lightly, carefully. 

“Yes. He ran it for decades. I want to keep it open forever.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” 

Castiel glances around, back toward his employees, and then meets Dean’s gaze. He’s subdued all of a sudden, and Dean wants nothing more than to see him smile again. “There’s a Winchester Grocery opening a few blocks away. And I’m hopeful, but… We have to be realistic,” he murmurs. His face turns determined, then. “But whatever happens, I’ll fight tooth and nail to stay in business.” 

“I’ll take apple,” Dean looks back to the pies, shoving down the rising guilt in his stomach. He’s shutting down this bakery no matter what, despite how likable the owner is. It’s a tough industry and small businesses go under all the time. 

Castiel walks them out to the sidewalk, waving as they get into their cab. Dean looks down at the box in his lap. The logo is just a little croissant in a circle. 

It doesn’t bear any resemblance to a penis. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hesitate to point out any discrepancies or errors in my writing. I don't have a beta or anything so it's possible that some things escape my proofing. Thanks again for the views and kudos, hope you enjoyed this chapter :)


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